


A Talk in the Park

by Squatchy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Romance, Comedy, Confusion, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Dialogue Heavy, Fluff, Flustered Aziraphale (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squatchy/pseuds/Squatchy
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have a conversation. Things go downhill from there. And then uphill. And then every-which-way hill.It's a rollercoaster ride of crossed signals and conflicting emotions and Aziraphale would very much like off if you would be so kind Crowley, yes thank you.





	A Talk in the Park

**Author's Note:**

> 1) A mixture of book and (mostly) show canon with the writing style heavily inspired by the book, right on down to the use of silly footnotes. 
> 
> 2) This is mainly just an exercise in writing dialogue.
> 
> 3) This is also my first published fanfic. For anything. Ever. Hope you enjoy it! (Seriously though, I had fun writing it)
> 
> 5) But it probably took me far too long to write/edit and if I don't publish it soon I never will, so...

The angel and the demon were walking side-by-side. Or, to be more precise; the angel and the demon were making a concentrated effort to lean on one another and to _not_ fall down face first while tottering along Green Park on an otherwise placid evening. Both had gotten equally inebriated during a hard-earned celebration on this, the first day of the rest of their lives here on Earth. Crowley (the demon in question) had been failing, quite spectacularly, at some lyrical recitation. The current tune feeling oddly appropriate to the recent dining experience with his friend, the angel Aziraphale.

“ _There were angels dining at the Riiiitz_ -,“ crooned Crowley.

“That’s me! And also you, sort of!” said Aziraphale. 

“Shhhhh-shh-shh—lemme finish. Lemme finish.” Crowley paused for effect. And for losing his place. “... Got it— _And a nightingale sang in Berrrkeleyyyy Squaaaare!_ ”

“Bravo, Crowley!”

Aziraphale made a noble attempt at clapping, despite his left arm being draped over his friend’s shoulders to help steady them both. But from the angel’s perspective, his faint applause as an audience of one was fittingly uproarious. Also from the angel’s perspective, Crowley was a not-half-bad singer, despite him and the rest of his breed being about as good at singing as they were at dancing. Which is to say, not very. And whether clouded by affection, or the after effects of champagne, Aziraphale may never know. He was far too happy at the moment to question his more refined musical tastes. 

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Just popped into m’ head all a’ sudden. No big thing,” said Crowley.

As he drew closer, the demon, somewhat accidentally, caught a whiff of his companion’s neck. It’s possible he could have done so in the more traditionally snakelike way, with his more snakelike tongue, but he thought it best not to. Not right now, anyway.

“That was _beautiful_. And so delightfully off-key in places. Like most of your popular music these days.”

“Yeah, enough— _URP_ —enough a’ that.” Crowley pointed to an empty bench. “Sit me down here, angel.”

“There you are, dear boy.” Aziraphale positioned himself to the right of Crowley, his usual spot. 

 

As the two glanced around them, they couldn’t help but notice the higher than average number of couples out and about this evening. And surprisingly amorous couples at that. One such pair, of indeterminate genders both, were passionately necking atop a bench neighboring their own from some distance. They then proceeded to neck atop each other, atop the bench. Something in the air, mayhaps?

To his credit, Crowley was doing everything in his power to not let loose his own once dormant urges, currently coursing through him. He didn’t always like to feed into every devilish stereotype about his kind, least of all this one, and least of all here and now, with a certain individual seated right next to him. But the demon was, without a doubt, feeling stereotypically _horny_ at the moment.

The neighboring couple soon graduated to necking under their bench now. Crowley had to admire their drive.

“Huh. You think they might all know, deep down, that they just narrowly avoided complete and total annihilation?” said Aziraphale. 

“Wouldn’t s’prise me,” said Crowley.

“I suppose those little survival instincts of theirs have started to act up. Seeking solace in those they hold most dear-“

“And snoggin’ each other’s brains out while they got the chance.” Crowley could’ve kicked himself for saying that.

“It’s a nice sentiment, really.” Scratch that. The self-kicking might not be necessary.

 

They both sat there in contented silence. Aziraphale in his usual bolt upright position, ever alert. And Crowley, lounging languidly; a reptile on a sun-warmed rock. The quiet between them a shared blanket, though this evening was not yet a chilly one. Angels and demons—or those assigned with bodies, anyway—could adjust their temperatures at will, so blankets were not a necessity. Still, Aziraphale and Crowley both liked the _idea_ of blankets. For they are, by their very nature, comforting and familiar.

Aziraphale looked over to his comforting and familiar friend, and remarked, “It is rather lovely out, isn’t it? God’s in Her Heaven. Your fellow’s in His, er, _down there_.”

“He can bloody well stay down there for all I care.“ 

“Yes, all does seem right with the world, I must say. Wouldn’t you agree, Crow-?“

“Do you want to have SEX? With me? Sex with me, Aziraphale?” blurted Crowley.

 

He just couldn’t keep it in, apparently.

 

Aziraphale bolted right up and out of his usual position. He was trembling from tip to toe. Out of shock. Embarrassment. A sizable helping of angelic fury, maybe. And all he could manage to muster then was a single, “Pardon?”

“Any points for not saying fuck? _Fuck_.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“Twopence in the naughty word jar, then. Cutting back to that _other_ statement; a simple yes or no would suffice. Hm?”

Aziraphale, trying so desperately to keep a semblance of composure, replied, “What, praytell Crowley, gave you the idea to ask such an _outlandish_ thing?”

The demon thought it would be ideal, in any other situation, to tread more carefully here. But he had already set off multiple land mines just then, so he figured one more couldn’t hurt. “Er, pretty sure you were chatting me up back at the restaurant. A weensy bit.”

Not recalling the popular usage of the phrase “to chat one up”, Aziraphale had to parse through the backlogs of his extensive memory. Upon finally uncovering the definition, he blushed a shade of red so pronounced that Satan Himself would strongly consider a palette change. For The Devil could not wear the exact same thing as an _angel_ , of all people. That’d be mortifying.

“Wh-Why did you have to go and—? We were having such a lovely time and-and—? Hold on. Is this one of your sick, demonic jokes? Because it isn’t the least bit amusing, Crowley!” 

The demon’s pride took a significant blow. “My sense of humor’s usually much _darker_ , angel. Unless the topic at hand is just that horrifying to you?” 

Aziraphale looked almost apologetic. He almost apologized. “… I should leave.”

“ _Argh_ —Aziraphale, let’s just have a _mature_ conversation!” Crowley attempted to grab at the angel’s sleeve, but recoiled, as if Aziraphale were a burning stove top. Which normally wouldn’t be an issue with demons. A strange day indeed.

“Fine! Let us maturely converse about how you, my dear boy, are not in your right mind. The alcohol has further hindered those already labyrinthine thought processes of yours.”

Crowley belched. “Actually, I sobered up completely soon as we sat down.”

Aziraphale was taken aback. “Oh. Of course. Well, I suppose in the spirit of full transparency, I admit I sobered up once we left the restaurant. Er, aside from a slight, champagne-induced buzz.”

“Heh. You do love your buzzes, angel.”

 

At a loss for what to say next, Aziraphale settled on anxiously pacing back and forth. And not knowing what else to do with his exquisitely manicured hands, chose to flail them around in an emphatic manner. It seemed fitting, given the circumstances.

By watching him, Crowley was starting to feel drunk again. “Aziraphale, would you kindly _sit_?”

“This is _not_ where I expected the evening to go, Crowley!”

“Me neither! But did you not once, whilst dragging my bollocksed self around, experience even a modicum of desire to, er-?“

“To what? What exactly are you implying, you old serpent? That I was tempted to—to take _advantage_ of you in that state? Or something?"

Crowley was not implying that. He would never, not in a million years, think such things of his best friend. But his mouth wasn’t fully attached to his brain when he so darkly remarked, “Hell, who wouldn’t? I mean...  _look at me_."

The comically lascivious eyebrow waggle did not do the demon any favors, as Aziraphale could only stare at him, aghast. The angel had never looked quite that way towards Crowley before, and he was around for much of the 80’s New Wave, and his normally more stylish friend’s resultant, and highly questionable, fashion choices

“That is _it_ , I am _finished_ with you! Good _bye_ , Crowley!”

The angel shuffled off, fully enraged, and spouting a seemingly endless tirade along the way that dissipated into the air. “The nerve! The gall! How dare you proposition me like that, and then to make light of such _horrid_ things. I am your _friend_ , you spiteful, insensitive…”

Now was the perfect time to say fuck, thought Crowley. 

 

“Angel? _That_ was a joke (a bad one)," Crowley cried out. "Please, let’s talk some more! You _like_ talking to me, remember?”

An exasperated sigh escapes him, and Crowley resigns himself to stretching his slender frame out as far as the length of the bench would allow. He wondered whether or not he should go after his friend, though he would probably only make the current state even worse, he surmises. By that point, the neighboring couple had moved well beyond necking and had proceeded to other body parts-ing while atop a nearby tree. Crowley, though feeling quite gloomy overall, grinned ever-so-slightly and mused, “Randy little squirrels.”

The demon removed his sunglasses, letting both them and the hand they were attached to hang dejectedly off the side. He was staring unblinkingly upwards into the abyss of encroaching night and thought it the perfect opportunity to berate himself. Because why not, he had some free time now, bugger it.

“You damnable _damned_ idiot. You went too fast for him. _Yet again_.”

Crowley also questioned whether he should have just said those three little words to Aziraphale—perhaps with one angel, near the end—instead of the jumbled mess that spewed forth mere minutes before. But Crowley always assumed that those three little words would’ve been much too forward at this juncture, well over 6,000 years into his and Aziraphale’s friendship.

Demons, horny though they may be in every sense, are not the most adept when it comes to gestures of a more romantic variety.

“I’ve had a good think, and I agree with you,” said Aziraphale, now standing by Crowley’s recumbent head.

“WHAT THE FFF-?” Crowley almost fell off the bench. If he had an everyday biological heart, it might’ve stopped then.

“Now, while I don’t agree with you at all on the more _ghastly_ things you may have insinuated-“

With quivering hands, Crowley re-applied his sunglasses. “Aziraphale, you’re right, that was _so_ stupid, _and_ sick. I'm so sorry.“

“-I do agree with the talking a bit more, er, bit. About us. Just give me a minute to cool off, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course!”

Aziraphale was by his side again. He had just circled the entire park, twice, in the span of a few short minutes.* And the angel was, quite literally, fuming; both as a cool-down method from the sheer physical exertion he had just experienced, and from the leftover anger directed at his companion. Crowley inched ever so slightly further away so as not to catch alight. He wasn’t well schooled on the properties of _heavenly_ fire, which was different from his lot’s hellfire in certain key ways, though not quite as existence-ending as the dreaded holy water. Still, he thought it would be in his own best interest to not to risk any sort of righteous burning.

 

Those tree branches had been shaking furiously throughout this entire interval, Crowley realized. "Feeling, er, cooled off enough there, angel?”

Aziraphale dabbed at the sweat accumulating on his brow with an antique kerchief and exhaled once more. He sincerely needed that. “Yes. I do believe I am. Now, about what you mentioned previously.”

“Uh-huh?”

“It’s not as though I've never thought about, well, _that_. By _that_ I mean sexual relations, obviously. Or physical intimacy of any sort. I do read quite a lot, you know. I’m an angel, after all, not a saint. And I might have certain… _volumes._ In my collection.”

“I might’ve _perused_ them.” 

“Yes. Well. The subject does intrigue me, on the whole, as most human-centric subjects do. Though my side—er, angels, in general—are by their very essence sexless. Unless we put in some considerable effort.”

“And why should a minor thing like that stop anyone?”

“Because my side was never created with such efforts in _mind_ , Crowley. God at least made most mortal creatures crave it in some form or other." 

“Just to, what? Procreate? You eat and drink without ever needing to eat and drink, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, I know there’s much more to it than that. But unlike you and your kind regarding sex-“

“I’m not a bloody _incubus_ ,” hissed Crowley.

Aziraphale sighed. “Of course _you_ aren’t. Demons and lust just, well, go together. On principle. Like chocolate with, I don’t know, jam.”

“Don’t you mean peanut butter?”

“Peanut butter with _jam_?** What? No, the point I appear to be failing to make here is that even the simplest acts of affection do not pair so naturally with me. Because they _aren’t_ natural with me. But I think—I think I’d quite _like_ them to be. And I, er, might be more than willing to make the effort. With, um-”

“Yeeeessss?”

“-With you. I’d like to make the effort with you, Crowley. Or so it would seem.”

 

Crowley tried not to get _too_ excited at this statement. Baby steps.

 

“Soooo why not have a go then? And we don’t _have_ to have sex just yet (much as I’d care to). We can hold hands, or snog, or gaze longingly into one another’s celestial orbs for days on end. Want to save it for the proverbial wedding night, eh? A millennium or two from now? I hear your old superiors really appreciate that level of patience.” 

The angel laughed. “You, sir, are ridiculous.”

“That I am. Because it’s all so wonderfully ridiculous, isn’t it? I want to be  _closer_ to you, Aziraphale, now more than ever. And why wait any longer? We may very likely lose this chance again.”

“Oh. I don’t know. We’ve gotten so impossibly close already, in spite of everything. But it could be rather nice to give our friendship a bit more room to _nudge_ , as it were.” (Crowley wanted to nudge the angel so badly upon hearing that.)  “Maybe I’m hesitant because I’m still keeping the old guards in place. As if I’m afraid of slipping up any further in the eyes of the Powers That Be. As if that even _matters_ anymore, after all we’ve been through together! Heh, old habits, as they say. You’ve already corrupted me plenty, Crowley. I don’t see how a little more touch could worsen things.” (Maybe Aziraphale would permit Crowley to nudge his upper arm. Or just between his ribs. His outer left thigh, perhaps?) “I’ve spent the night in your flat, for Heaven’s sake—by the way, you really ought to go easier on your poor plants, dear boy— and we’ve switched _bodies_. We’ve truly reached a point of no return in our relationship and why are you rubbing your elbow so vigorously like that?”

Crowley's arms were down in an instant. “No reason! Bumped it or somethin’.”

“… Right. And it’s not as though any book of prophecies outright states that an angel and a demon becoming romantically involved would cause the world to end. Again. I should know, of course. I just wish it didn’t feel quite so… world-end-y. For lack of a better term.”

The demon reflected upon this, and upon his own self-doubts. “Because certain words could end this fragile little world we’ve built for ourselves?”

“Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale stared at him, nearly weeping, but remaining steadfast, "My dear, you didn’t _end_ it. You might’ve shifted the poles a tad, but our world is _rock_ -solid, and not in the slightest bit fragile.”

Crowley smiled back: warmly, snakily. Aziraphale has always enjoyed that smile, even when he used to fervently protest that he did, in fact, not.

“Heh, I wasn’t referring to _those_ words exactly. But thank you, all the same. And for not abandoning me as a result of my foolish outbursts, by the by.”

“We’ve survived much worse together, Crowley.”

“That we have.” 

The angel hesitated before saying, “And you may have been right about me. At the restaurant. A weensy bit.”

“I _knew_ it! You devil in disguise, you _were_ chatting me up back there!”

“I wasn’t ‘chatting you up’! I was perhaps a touch more...  _flighty?_ That can't be right. I’m not yet well-versed in this, Crowley, you know that! And don’t you dare quote that Prezzley fellow at me.”

“I think you mean _flirty_ , Aziraphale. And I’m surprised you know who that is.”

Aziraphale smirked. And Crowley was not entirely wrong to be surprised. Angels always seemed a century or three behind on current musical trends, yet another defining characteristic of theirs. The works of one Elvis Presley*** seemed to transcend this. That and  _The Sound of Music_ soundtrack, which probably shouldn't count for much.

 

“… It’s getting late,” said Aziraphale.

“The bookshop beckoning?” said Crowley

“Well, there is a fair amount of not-selling to do by the wee hours.”

Crowley could never not take his friend’s hints, however painfully obvious. “Wish for me to escort you home then, angel? Walk you to your door? Carry you over the _threshold_?”

“That would be a rather nice ending. To such a pleasantly strange outing.”

“So it was a proper date then, eh? That’s a start!”

“Oh, hush. But lose the threshold part, it’s only the first one after all.”

“Confirmation at last!”

“You’re impossible.” Aziraphale stood up, and Crowley followed suit.

“Whatever happened to that enthusiastic couple, I wonder?” said Aziraphale.

“Up that tree there. Maybe park services will offer ‘em a ladder come morning.”

“I should hope so, my goodness.”

 

Crowley miracle’d them a ladder anyway. At his companion’s behest.

 

 

 

The demon and the angel were walking side-by-side, far more gracefully this time, towards a parked Bentley. Later on, as they were standing just outside his old shop door, the angel, somewhat nervously, pecked at both of his friend’s cheeks. On the face, of course. A little European, the demon concluded, but a decent enough start. The angel even permitted his friend a light nudging of the ribs before departing. It wasn't the most pleasant experience (Crowley’s elbow was considerably pointy), nor was it the most _un_ pleasant. But the demon was beaming at him, so that made it all worthwhile in the angel's mind.

 

* * *

 

Some months later, Aziraphale may have unintentionally let slip over the phone those three little words—plus one Crowley, near the end—while his companion was supposed to be driving. Crowley was forced to stop abruptly, in the middle of a very busy street. All the London traffic police couldn’t pry that phone from his stupefied grip. Or wipe the infectious, lovestruck grin from his face.

 

* * *

 

Some months after that, Crowley intentionally let slip those three little words—plus one angel, near the end—to Aziraphale, albeit face-to-face this time. A great deal more kissing and far fewer angry commuters were involved as a direct result.

 

And the world kept right on spinning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> * Though soft and sedentary by default, and therefore not in the habit of keeping his earthly form in top physical condition, Aziraphale did have the tendency to let his heightened emotions propel his limbs forward at breakneck speeds, however rare the occurrence. This almost made Crowley’s reckless driving habits look downright lawful by comparison. 
> 
> ** For Americans: jam = jelly. For Non-Americans: peanut butter + jam/jelly = an affront to all things pure and edible and good. Crowley may have had a hand in concocting the combo. Depending on one’s overall stance.
> 
> *** Elvis was also significant to either side in that he was originally supposed to be dead, but neither of the two realms of the afterlife have yet to claim him as their own. There was always the possibility of him being alive, as many humans still hoped and prayed. Or the possibility of the man simply floating around Purgatory. But beings of such extremes could never stand to fathom such a dull, in-between sort of place. At least Earth has variety. And Heaven and Hell were still interesting, if not ideal, places to live. Purgatory was Crowley and Aziraphale’s shared concept of a “true” Hell. Or Heaven, in Crowley’s case.


End file.
